


say you're gonna leave

by shineyma



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Season/Series 01, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-04-06 19:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14064270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/pseuds/shineyma
Summary: Coulson's team takes togetherness very seriously.





	say you're gonna leave

**Author's Note:**

> *looks at plans for a fun, cracky little drabble* *looks at monster 5k+ fic* *facepalms*
> 
> idk what happened, guys. It was just...it was gonna be a drabble. It really was.
> 
> Also, minor **warning** for vulgarity. Which...feels like a silly thing to warn for, but when I was rereading to edit I got to that line and was like " _whoa_ " so...I feel like I should give y'all a heads up. It's in there.
> 
> Anyway. Thanks very much for reading and, as always, please be gentle if you review!

Three days after Hong Kong, the team is sent to Croatia to investigate a possible 084.

The mood on the Bus is a little tense. Personally, Grant’s still steaming over Skye’s little betrayal, going behind their back to tip off her Rising Tide boyfriend…and his mood doesn’t improve any when he gets fucking _concussed_ an hour after landing.

Killing the guy who inflicted the concussion (via a really freaking solid metal toolbox) does nothing to ease his ire—and neither does being ordered to stay on the Bus while the rest of the team goes on with the mission.

“I can’t protect you from here!” he tries to argue, but Simmons only pushes him back into bed.

(The fact that she can actually _do_ it is...really not a great sign for his health.)

“You can’t protect us if you can’t see straight, either,” she says sternly. “Coulson’s orders are very clear: you’re to stay here and heal.” She pats him soothingly on the chest, then backs out of his bunk. “Don’t worry; we’ll be perfectly fine.”

Yeah. Famous last words.

 

+++

 

“I knew I should’ve come with you,” he says, fourteen hours later. “If I’d been there—”

“The 084 would’ve hit you, too,” Coulson interrupts. “And the last thing you need when you’ve got a concussion is to be knocked out.”

Usually that’d be Simmons’ line, but she’s not paying any attention. The local base’s scientists are running tests on the 084, and she and Fitz are both wholly absorbed in the results being livestreamed to their tablets. They’re only speaking in half-syllables and cut-off exclamations, the way they do when there’s science afoot; he’s not sure they’ve even noticed they’re in quarantine, let alone that Grant’s come to visit them.

“Still,” Grant says. “It’s my job—”

“To take care of yourself,” Coulson interrupts again, “so that you can take care of us. Speaking of which…” He squints at Grant. “Should you be on your feet already?”

Probably not. His head is still throbbing; every so often, a particularly bad spike of pain actually makes spots dance in his vision. But he’s got a cover to keep, and his cover wouldn’t be anywhere else when his whole team is stuck in quarantine.

“I’m not leaving,” he insists. “As long as you guys are here, I’m here.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Coulson says placidly. “But the least you should do is sit down.”

“I’m fine.” One of the local administrative agents promised to bring him a chair when he insisted he’d be spending his team’s confinement right outside their room, but she’s sure taking her time about it. Too bad his stupid cover would never raise the issue himself; he really would like to sit. “Which, incidentally, is what Simmons promised me you guys’d be.”

He does a pointed once over of their surroundings: the team installed in a large quarantine room (four glass walls, eight beds, a table, and a sad little stack of magazines) and him stuck out in the hallway, leaning against the glass to avoid being bumped by any of the countless doctors scurrying back and forth.

It’s all the result of their investigation into the 084, which apparently had some, quote, weird blinky lights, end quote, and released an unknown substance that made the whole team pass out.

Not the kind of news a team specialist wants to be woken from his nap to hear.

“This does not look fine,” he says.

Coulson waves that off. “It still might be. We’re not showing any symptoms.”

“Yet,” Skye—who’s collapsed dramatically on her assigned bed; Grant kinda thought she was asleep—says direly. “It’s only been a few hours. We could still grow horns or a tail or something. Or gills! I bet we’re gonna grow gills and suffocate right here before anyone can bring us any water.”

May rolls her eyes.

“It’s totally possible!” Skye insists. “Right, Simmons? We could totally grow gills and die.”

Simmons hums absently. “That’s the spirit.”

“See?”

“I’m sure we won’t grow gills,” Coulson says patiently. “But if we _do_ , rest assured that SHIELD will act with all due speed—they’d definitely get us to water in time.”

“Maybe the rest of you,” Skye allows. “But I’m just a consultant. A _grounded_ consultant.” She extends her tracking bracelet as proof, then pauses, studying it thoughtfully. “Hey. Since we’re gonna die _anyway_ —”

“No,” May says flatly.

“The bracelet stays,” Grant agrees at once.

Skye slumps. “Mean.”

If she’s hoping for sympathy from Coulson—her only shot, with Fitzsimmons still so absorbed in their science—she doesn’t get it. He’s busy frowning at May.

“Will you sit down?” he asks. “You’re making me twitchy.”

It’s a reasonable request; she’s been hovering (in a very chill and subtle way) over him since Grant got here—at _least_. For all he knows, she’s been doing it since they first regained consciousness.

“No,” she repeats, tone just as flat.

“These beds are really comfy,” Coulson wheedles.

May stares him down.

“Fine,” he says, making a show of settling back against his nice, comfy pillow. “Suit yourself.”

She doesn’t respond to his surrender, but Grant thinks he sees a satisfied smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. And for all that Coulson lost, he’s looking just as quietly pleased.

Grant’s gotta be honest; it throws him.

It’s all a little bizarre—what does May think she’s gonna do if they _do_ start showing symptoms? She’ll be just as affected as the rest of them—and pretty far out of the box Grant had her pegged in. He knows she and Coulson are old teammates, but he’s never seen her be particularly _friendly_ to the guy…in fact, at times she’s been downright cold.

Still, she did get pretty snappy when they lost contact with Coulson in Malta. Maybe he should’ve given more thought to that.

“Waaaaaaaaaard,” Skye whines, dragging him back to the present. “I’m borrrrrrrrrred.” She brightens. “He-ey, that rhymes! Ward, I’m bored. Ward, I’m bored. Bring me…a sword? To…fight off the hoard! And I’ll win an awa—no, too easy. Um. Then I’ll eat a gourd! And—”

It’s gonna be a long quarantine.

 

+++

 

It _is_ a long quarantine, but at the end of it, the team is cleared and released without ever having developed…well, anything. No gills, definitely, but also not so much as a sneeze.

The 084 is deemed weird but mostly harmless and shipped to the Sandbox for further study, and the team gets back to work. Grant’s concussion heals, Skye’s tracking bracelet stays, Fitzsimmons eventually remember that the rest of them exist—everything’s normal.

No harm done. More than that, it’s actually a good thing, because Grant’s learned some valuable information: May gets _weird_ about Coulson.

He’d been thinking of maybe letting things get intimate with her—as far as threats to his cover go, she’s the biggest one, and he’d be making his life a lot easier if he could get her to write him off as an awkward-yet-endearing fanboy crushing on the Cavalry—but it’s obvious now that it’d be a bad play.

There’s something going on there. Better not to get in between those two.

 

+++

 

Grant doesn’t _intend_ to become intimate with Simmons instead…but somehow, it happens.

Halfway through their post-mission team breakfast, only a few hours after he thought he finally spent it all on that fight in the abbey, the berserker rage boils back up in his blood. It’s stupid; Skye snags a piece of bacon off his plate and _boom_ , there it is, he’s furious again.

It takes everything he’s got not to break her wrist. Over a fucking piece of _bacon_.

“Excuse me,” he mutters, shoving away from the table, and then he flees, just barely managing to keep his pace to a slightly too-fast walk instead of a run.

His punching bag’s right downstairs, but it could be a mile, and every inch pisses him off that much more. He hates the fucking claustrophobic little hallway separating the cabin from the cargo bay. He hates the fucking step over the bulkhead onto the catwalk. He hates the fucking spiral stairs that mean he has to duck on his way down to avoid hitting his head.

Minor annoyances, tiny things that barely bother him most days…but with this fucking alien magic working at him, he could kill over any of them.

Goddamnit.

He lays into the punching bag, trying to put the rage away—to lose it in the pain in his knuckles and the bag’s refusal to give—but it doesn’t work. Nothing works. All he’s doing is building up a sweat and putting strain on his cracked ribs.

And then—there’s someone behind him—he spins—throws a punch—recognizes her—pulls it at the last second.

Simmons doesn’t even flinch.

“Fuck,” he says, and turns away. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

“Ward—”

“Not _ever_ ,” he says, pissed all over again at how close he came to hitting her, “and especially not now.”

“All right,” she says calmly. “I’m sorry for startling you.”

He nods to acknowledge the apology—better that than opening his mouth and risking what he might say—and turns back to the bag, ready to resume his fruitless attempts at controlling this shit. Before he can do more than pull back his arm, though, Simmons stills him by laying a hand on it.

“Shall I take this to mean you’re experiencing a resurgence of the berserker rage?” she asks.

He cuts a look at her and finds, unsurprisingly, that she’s staring up at him with big, worried doe eyes.

She’s got a crush on him. Has since he jumped out of the Bus after her and saved her life. That was a classic hero move and it was predictable that she’d catch feelings after he pulled it off, but less predictable was that he’d actually _enjoy_ her crush the way he does.

The way she fusses that bit more over his every injury, the way she lingers to watch him work out, the way she just fucking lights up whenever she makes him laugh…it’s cute. Endearing, even. He’s nowhere near returning her feelings, but he’s starting to get pretty fond of her—to like her company and the way she watches him.

Seeing her worry now, being reminded of her crush—it calms him a little. Not a _lot_ , not enough to erase the blinding, burning fury that’s overtaken him, but enough that he doesn’t shake off her hand.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. It’s back.”

“And you’re attempting to counter it through violence again,” she surmises, darting a little glance at his already-bloodied knuckles. “How is that working?”

His anger surges; he rides the wave, tries to drown it out with the little circles Simmons has started rubbing on his arm.

“It’s not,” he admits, once he’s sure he can without shouting.

She nods thoughtfully. “You missed Coulson’s announcement, leaving when you did. In light of everything that’s happened, we have the next two days off—and SHIELD has generously allowed us to expense rooms at a nearby hotel.”

That pisses him off. Fuck knows why.

“What’s your point?” he demands.

“My point is…” She chews at her lower lip, then steps a tiny bit closer. “Perhaps you should try working off your excess adrenaline in a different, more productive manner.”

Does she mean…?

“What are you suggesting?”

“You’re in distress,” she says. Her hand slides up his arm and across his shoulder and somehow ends up cupping his face. It’s nice; her touch is cool, chilling against the fire the berserker staff put in his skin. “I’d like to help you.”

“How?” he asks. He knows what _he’s_ thinking—what he’s picturing now, him and her and a hotel bed, those pretty downturned lips wrapped around his cock and her soft, cool skin under his hands—but he’s really gonna need her to actually say it.

He’s not calm enough to navigate his cover right now, doesn’t know how to handle this or anything else. If she’s suggesting what he thinks she is, he’ll agree. If she’s not, he has no idea how to suggest it himself, or if his cover even would.

Luckily, they’re on the same page.

“With sex,” she says bluntly. “Casual and obligation-free, I promise. It won’t mean anything, just a doctor helping her patient.” She falters, her confident mask slipping just a bit. “Assuming, of course, that you’re—”

He cuts her off with a kiss.

It turns into another, and another, and then—one very quick drive later—it’s the two of them and that bed he was imagining.

The sex works much, much better than the punching bag.

 

+++

 

Grant doesn’t take the opening Jemma gives him to back off after their two days together.

Sure, he doesn’t _need_ to start a relationship with her, but why the hell not? It’s good for the cover—helps soften his rough edges, lets the team see him as more than just their uptight protector—and, less relevant but still compelling—it’s fun.

He gets spectacular sex, lots of worry and soft looks (and snapping and sarcasm; Jemma can get _mean_ when she’s worried, to an actually hilarious degree), and an excuse to spend a night away from the rest of the team every once in a while. And he likes Jemma on a personal level. He might not feel about her the way she does about him, but he enjoys spending time with her.

It’s a win/win situation—for his cover, for himself, even for Jemma. He doesn’t see any reason not to date her.

 

+++

 

Turns out there is _one_ downside, as he finds out two months later: when he announces during dinner that he’s leaving the next morning, Jemma looks at him like he’s just ripped her heart right out.

Of course, the rest of the team doesn’t take it much better. Fitz drops his fork, and May actually _frowns_ at him, which is mildly terrifying.

“You’re _abandoning_ us?” Skye asks, voice just dripping with hurt. She even throws in a lip wobble for good measure.

“It’s just temporary,” he says, mostly to Jemma. “My SO’s running an op in Russia and needs another man. And since we’re stood down for the moment…”

He trails off into a one-shouldered shrug, meant to indicate his total uselessness here on the Bus while they’re not getting missions, and Jemma zeroes right in on it.

“You’re injured, though,” she says, scowling, and pokes at his good arm. “You can’t go on missions with a _hole_ in your shoulder, Grant.”

“Already did,” he reminds her—referring, of course, to the op to rescue Coulson from John’s tender mercies. (That’s the real reason he’s going; he needs an update on that whole situation, to find out what—if anything—Raina got out of Coulson and whether it’s changed his orders any.) “And that was when it was fresh. I’m fine.”

“Fine?” Fitz scoffs.

“You are _definitely_ not fine,” Skye agrees. “For sure not up to missions in Russia.”

Fitz picks up his fork just so he can point it at Grant. “Remember what happened in Belarus?”

“Right!” Skye says. “You had to jump out a second-story window! Do you remember that?”

“Belarus isn’t Russia,” Grant says calmly. “And _if_ anything goes wrong, I can handle it.”

Jemma, Skye, and Fitz all look dubious. May is still frowning.

“Seriously,” he insists. He’s not sure whether he’s offended, amused, or weirdly touched by their worry. Kind of all three, he guesses. “I’ve been doing this for a long time, you guys. I know my limits.”

“And what if we need you?” Fitz demands. Skye nods vigorously in agreement. “You’re going to leave us without a specialist?”

“The Bus is grounded,” Grant reminds him.

“But if something happens,” Skye starts.

“If something happens, any one of the literal _dozens_ of specialists stationed at this base will be on hand to help out,” he says. It’s not like they’re parked in a field somewhere; it’s a fully functioning SHIELD facility, complete with guest quarters they’re all (for some reason) refusing to use. “Not that anything will, because, again, the Bus is grounded. I’ll be back before our downtime ends.”

It’s a pretty good argument, if he says so himself, but it doesn’t sway them at all. Actually, they look _more_ upset than when he started. Jemma might be on the verge of tears.

“Sir,” she says, turning to Coulson in entreaty.

Skye and Fitz follow suit—and honestly, so does Grant. He knew there’d be _some_ resistance to this plan, but he really wasn’t expecting this much. He thought Jemma’d fuss about his arm, he’d reassure her, and that’d be it.

And he really thought he could count on May to back him up if necessary. But she’s still just frowning at him, like going on _one_ solo op when there’s _nothing else to do_ is some huge crime.

Coulson’s his last hope for some sanity—and fortunately, after shaking off whatever thoughts have kept him from participating in the conversation thus far, he actually delivers it.

Kind of.

“We can’t talk you out of this?” he asks Grant.

“No, sir,” he says. “Agent Garrett asked for me specifically.”

“I understand,” Coulson says, and ignores the immediate chorus of protests from Jemma, Skye, and Fitz. “Just be careful—and be sure to come back in one piece.” He smiles conspiratorially. “You’ll never hear the end of it otherwise.”

No kidding. “Yes, sir.”

“ _Coulson_ ,” Skye says, looking and sounding utterly betrayed. “You’re gonna let Ward just _leave_?”

Coulson spreads his hands. “You heard him. We can’t talk him out of it.”

“But—” Jemma starts.

“And I don’t want to hear another word about any of you trying,” Coulson interrupts sternly, and all three of them subside.

They sure don’t look happy about it, though—and neither does May.

“It’s a bad idea,” she says, darkly, and viciously spears some of her potatoes.

Grant shakes his head and returns to his own dinner, both touched and bemused. Nice to be wanted, he guesses, but that was a hell of an overreaction. It’s possible their team is crossing the line into serious codependency; a little break is just the thing.

And not just for him, probably. Maybe he’ll drop some words in a few ears while he’s gone, see about getting Jemma and Fitz asked to consult on something sciencey at a different base for a week or two.

It’ll be good for all of them.

 

+++

 

Despite Coulson’s edict, the conversation at dinner isn’t the end of it, which he really should’ve expected.

That night, Jemma sneaks into his bunk and makes a very, very persuasive case for him staying. It doesn’t sway him, obviously, but damn does he appreciate her efforts.

He’s less appreciative the next morning, when she, Skye, and Fitz all accost him in the lounge. He’s got his duffle in hand, there’s a transport waiting for him in the hangar outside, and _still_ they’re trying to convince him to stay.

It’s annoying—annoying enough that it takes a lot of concentration to keep his tone cover-appropriate…and annoying enough to make him sloppy. That’s the only explanation for why he doesn’t sense Coulson coming up behind him until it’s too late.

He glances over his shoulder just in time to see the night-night gun before he takes two shots to the back.

 

+++

 

Grant wakes up in the Cage. Alone. Without his duffle. _With_ a blinding headache.

What the hell.

“What just happened?” he asks the ceiling. It doesn’t offer any answer.

“Okay, Ward,” he mutters, and pushes himself up. “Assess the situation.”

Good news: he’s not restrained. Actually, he’s on the bed, carefully tucked under a quilt he recognizes as his own. So there’s that.

Bad news: his weapons, phone, and lockpicks (not that they’d do him much good against the Cage’s pressurized door) are all gone.

Oh, yeah, and he’s been _locked in his own team’s cell after being shot by his commanding officer_. That falls pretty squarely under bad news.

His first guess would be that he’s been made, that somehow the team figured out his connection to Centipede…but that doesn’t gel with the careful treatment. If they figured out he was in on the Clairvoyant’s operation, he’d expect to wake up mid-beating from May, not tucked into bed.

So his cover’s probably secure.

His second guess…

Nope. He’s got nothing. This is a whole new level of weird, even for this team.

Well, first things first—he should at least _try_ the door. Chances are it’s locked, but it’s always worth a shot. (Nothing more embarrassing than spending hours in a cell only to realize the door was unlocked the whole time.)

Sure enough, the door doesn’t budge under his tugs…which leads him to the second step: asking.

“Guys?” he says, turning to face the camera in the corner. “Hello? Anyone wanna tell me what’s going on?”

There’s a strange clatter, and then Jemma’s voice, cheerful as ever.

“Oh good, you’re awake!” He can just picture her beaming at the security feed. “How’s your head, love? I know the dendrotoxin can pack a bit of a punch.”

“It’s pounding,” he says flatly. Jemma makes a tiny noise of distress. “And since you brought it up, why the hell did Agent Coulson _shoot me_?”

“Sorry about that, Ward,” Coulson says, not that he _sounds_ it. “But you did say you couldn’t be talked out of leaving, so…all we could do was take action.”

What? _What_?

Is Grant dreaming? His aching head suggests not, but _seriously_. This makes no sense. At all.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he says slowly. “I’m not sure I understand—you _shot me_ and _locked me in the Cage_ just to keep me from going on assignment?”

“Yep,” Coulson says—easily, carelessly, like it’s a _totally normal_ thing to do. “We need you with us, Ward. We couldn’t let you leave.”

Okay.

So.

Apparently Coulson’s lost his damn mind. Good to know. Grant’d blame it on the torture—he still doesn’t know what that machine of Raina’s was supposed to do—if not for the fact that Jemma seems to be right there with him.

“So you’re…what? Just going to keep me in the Cage indefinitely?” he asks.

“Of course not!” Jemma exclaims, sounding honestly shocked by the suggestion. That’s something, at least. “May’s just getting clearance for us to take off—as soon as we’re in the air, we’ll let you out.”

May’s in on this, too? Really? Has _everyone_ on this Bus but him gone crazy?

“Okay,” he says, trying for patience, “but my SO’s expecting me—and I’m supposed to be on a flight to Novosibirsk right now. What is May gonna tell tower control when they ask why I missed it?”

“Oh, don’t worry!” Skye chimes in—and he’s not even surprised _she’s_ involved. Fitz is probably there, too. “I already hacked your phone and sent Agent Garrett a text saying you couldn’t make it.”

She—

“And you were okay with this, sir?” Grant asks.

Knocking out and gently imprisoning one of his own agents is one thing. It’s fucking crazy, sure, but it’s within Coulson’s brand of kooky—it’s not something that’ll get him in any real trouble. His _head checked_ , yes, but no disciplinary action.

But tampering with and falsifying intra-agency communication is a _huge_ deal in SHIELD. Back in Grant’s Academy days, one of his fellow cadets faked an email from an instructor, claiming the week’s homework had been canceled. Just a tiny little prank, totally harmless, but it got the guy kicked out of the Academy _and_ blacklisted so he’d never work with any _other_ agency, either. SHIELD takes that shit seriously.

He knows Coulson’s already gotten a lot of flak—first for taking Skye on and then for _keeping_ her on after what she pulled in Hong Kong. If he let her impersonate Grant to the point of pulling out of an op?

Screw disciplinary action—depending on how bad a mood the investigating agents are in, Coulson could outright lose the team over this.

“ _Okay_ is a stretch,” Coulson allows, “but we didn’t have a choice.”

“You can’t leave us, Ward,” Fitz says. “You just can’t.”

“It was just one op,” he says, a little helplessly. He doesn’t know what else _to_ say.

Grant’s usually pretty good at rolling with the punches, but this is just…so completely unexpected. What is _wrong_ with them?

“One op is still one too many,” Jemma says as the Bus rumbles to life beneath his feet. They’re taxiing—about to take off. Whatever’s going on, it wasn’t obvious enough for tower control to keep them here.

Good news, he’ll be out of the Cage soon. Bad news, nobody else knows what’s going on.

Hell, _Grant_ doesn’t know what’s going on. Not really.

“Exactly,” Skye agrees. “Remember what happened in Croatia, Ward? Less than ten hours away from you and—”

Croatia. That’s it.

Skye keeps talking—actually, they’re all talking, taking turns trying to convince him this is a totally reasonable thing to have done—but he blocks it out as his mind races.

Croatia. The 084. The weird substance that knocked the others out, but otherwise had no effect—what if it did?

They were all in quarantine together, and Grant was outside pretty much the whole time, right there in their line of sight. And there have been weird things since then, haven’t there? Things he didn’t question, but…

When Jemma was infected and about to die from that Chitauri virus, Coulson refused to throw her off the Bus. That was dangerous—they could’ve _all_ been killed—but Grant wrote it off as Coulson’s eternal optimism at work, refusing to give up until the last possible second.

And just a few days later, when Agent Hand wanted to send Grant and Fitz on a two-man op into South Ossetia, Coulson wouldn’t allow it. Grant _thought_ Coulson was just being overcautious with Fitz’s safety, but…

Now that he’s thinking about it, a dozen other examples spring to mind. So many times when Coulson’s made a weird call—a call that kept the team together, even when it would’ve been smarter or more efficient to separate them.

And hell, it’s not just Coulson, is it? There was that hotel, the one he and Jemma first hooked up in, where Skye threw a minor fit because she couldn’t get a room on the same floor as the rest of them…and rather than telling her to suck it up, Fitz actually let her share with him.

Even here, on this base, they’re all still sleeping on the Bus, eschewing the much larger and nicer guest quarters…because they’re too far apart? Is that it? Grant was the only one to even _suggest_ taking them, and it got him a hell of a frown from Jemma, even when he hinted at all the fun they could have if they didn’t have to worry about disturbing the others.

And speaking of frowns, May’s attitude last night…

They’re all being affected. Everyone but Grant. And he was the only one who wasn’t hit by that 084.

It’s not _conclusive_ , as Jemma would probably say, but the circumstantial evidence is pretty fucking compelling.

“Okay,” he says to himself, and drops down onto the bed as the Bus takes off. “So what the hell am I gonna do about it?”

 

+++

 

Jemma lets him out of the Cage with a hopeful smile twenty minutes later.

“Your head doesn’t hurt too awfully, does it?” she asks, reaching up to brush her fingers along his temple.

“No,” he says. “It’s fine.”

“Oh, good,” she says, and goes up on her toes to wrap her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry! If there’d been any other way—”

“I understand,” he says, hugging her close. It’s not _her_ fault she’s under the influence of an 084…and honestly, John’s inevitable reaction aside, it’s kinda nice that they’re all so worried about him. “Can I have my phone, please?”

Jemma flinches a little and pulls back.

“I’m afraid not,” she says, and, taking his hand, tugs him in the direction of the lounge. “Coulson’s orders. You can only have it back when he’s sure you’ve come to your senses about leaving.”

Well, there’s one strategy dead in the water. “Fair enough.”

The whole team’s waiting in the lounge, which makes his other strategy—knock everyone out, lock himself in the cockpit, and radio back to base—much more viable.

Two problems: one, May’s here, and he’s not fully confident in his ability to take her down. If he can, great. But if he tries and fails, he’ll have proven he hasn’t ‘come to his senses,’ and it’ll make his next attempt that much harder.

And two, there’s way too much chance of collateral damage. He _knows_ he can take the rest of them, but could he do it without actually hurting them? He can’t guarantee it.

Fact is, it’s really not worth the risk. It’s not like the team’s _hurting_ him; all they want is to keep him close. Better just to go along and let this play out until they trust him enough to give his phone back—then he can contact HQ and get some help with this.

What’s the worst that could happen?

“So,” he says, aiming an all-is-forgiven smile at the others. “Where are we headed?”

Coulson visibly relaxes. He’s probably relieved he doesn’t have to _shoot Grant in the back_ again.

“Haven’t decided yet,” he says. “But I was thinking New Zealand. I’ve always wanted to see Milford Sound.”

…Okay then.

“Long flight,” Grant says mildly, and Skye brightens.

“Perfect!” she exclaims, and darts into her bunk. Two seconds later, she’s back—with a familiar box. With a flourish, she drops it on the coffee table. “Because guess what I found in a storage pod last week!”

“Monopoly?” Grant asks, but his skepticism is probably lost under the flood of enthusiastic reactions.

“I’ll be the thimble!” Jemma says, dropping his hand in favor of scrambling for her apparently preferred piece.

“Dog,” Fitz calls, “although you know what we really need?”

“A monkey,” Jemma and Skye chorus.

May’s not to the point of calling dibs on pieces or laughing over Fitz’s monkey obsession (thank God; there are some things just _too_ weird for Grant to accept), but she _does_ smile and take a seat in one of the recliners, apparently ready and willing to play.

“Ward?” Coulson asks. He, Grant sees, has chosen the racecar. “You in?”

Grant _does_ love board games. Plus, playing along is probably the fastest way to win their trust and get his phone back.

(Or he could steal one of theirs…but again. Trust.)

“Sure,” he says. Why not? “I’ll take the battleship.”


End file.
